


The Norwood Feast

by mightymads



Series: My Blushes, Watson! [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Feels, Porn Without Plot, Post-Reichenbach, Rimming, lots of hugs and kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Upon solving the case of the Norwood builder, Holmes collapses from exhaustion. Watson takes care of him, coaxing him to eat and sleep properly. Soon Holmes gets better and says to his doctor that he is hungry but not for food.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: My Blushes, Watson! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1302107
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	The Norwood Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: mentions of canonical unhealthy eating behaviour

> My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure inanition.
> 
> — _The Norwood Builder_

* * *

Seeing off the police-van which was driving the malignant Jonas Oldacre away, I drew a sigh of relief. The past few days had been harrowing for Holmes, who had refused to eat, saying that it would slow him down. The diet of cigarettes and coffee was now taking its toll, for Holmes’s face was pallid as he peered after the van, his bloodless lips curved up in a triumphant smile. When the carriage disappeared around the corner, I touched Holmes’s elbow. It was time to go home and rest. Holmes nodded, but suddenly he swayed and staggered, grasping for me. The next instant he collapsed senseless into my arms. My heart racing, I held him and cursed inwardly that I hadn’t taken my medical bag with me.

“Good God, what’s wrong with him, Dr. Watson?” Lestrade exclaimed, his beady eyes alarmed.

The constables guarding the house were staring in our direction with curiosity and confusion.

“He’s been starving himself these days,” I replied quietly. “Would you get us a cab please, Lestrade?”

“Certainly, certainly. Oh, Mr. Holmes, always takes matters to heart a bit too much.” Lestrade sighed sympathetically and hurried off to hail a cab.

Thankfully, the good inspector found a four-wheeler. Rattling back to Baker Street, I was trying to calm down, my fingers wrapped around Holmes’s wrist. His pulse was fluttering and somewhat arrhythmic. He was seated beside me, still unconscious, with his head laid on my shoulder and his nose buried into my frock-coat. I was angry with myself for not having insisted more firmly that he eat. I was angry with him for his stubbornness. He was not yet fully recovered from his three-year absence when he had often pushed himself to the limits of endurance, tracking down the remaining part of Moriarty’s syndicate. 

Mrs. Hudson was angered and appalled too upon our arrival. She served a light meal which I coaxed Holmes to consume as soon as he regained his senses. For the next four days we nursed Holmes back to health in spite of his annoyed protests. Even though the Norwood case proved successful in the end, it frayed his nerves, and I was concerned that he would fall into a black mood. At my request, the whole household trod lightly around him.

The newspapers were as boring as they had been before John Hector McFarlane had come running to our door. Lestrade’s shrewdness was praised everywhere, of course. Someday I’ll set the matter right. When I write up this case, I won’t change the names of its participants. Since McFarlane’s reputation was restored by the press, he shouldn’t mind, I think.

Apart from the Norwood case, there was nothing else worth attention in the papers. New clients were unlikely to appear soon. Nevertheless, I asked Mrs. Hudson that we were not to be disturbed unless it was of utmost importance. Holmes begrudgingly agreed with my arrangements and resolved himself to rest. By the end of the week his health was much better.

We were spending a Friday afternoon ensconced on the sofa. Holmes lay napping with his head in my lap whilst I sat stroking his hair idly and reading a yellow-backed novel.

“John,” he called sleepily after a while.

“Hmm?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh?” I put the novel aside, surprised, for we had had a hearty lunch only an hour before. “Well, maybe Mrs. Hudson will make some sandwiches.”

“Not for food,” Sherlock said, fixing me with a look I knew rather well. 

Such a look always meant that we would find ourselves in my bedroom upstairs. And so we did.

“I’m hungry for your cock in me,” he whispered as he pressed me to the locked door behind us. “You gave me such an erotic dream.”

“Then first—”

“I’ve been to the water closet before the nap. Just fuck me.”

“Sherlock,” I drawled with amusement. “That hungry, eh?”

“Aren’t you too?” his hand slid down and squeezed my hardening prick through the clothes. “The Norwood case left me out of sorts, and I hadn’t been inclined during it. Whereas you are regular in your habits.” 

“I am, of course. But I’ve been worried about you more.”

“Now you needn’t be.”

He captured my mouth and kissed me roughly, demandingly until I was breathless and so hard it was maddening.

“What was I doing in your dream?” I panted.

“You had me _a retro_ , deep and slow,” Sherlock replied while his long, deft fingers were unbuttoning my trousers.

“So be it,” I said, removing his dressing-gown and letting it drop on the floor. “I shan’t fuck you; I shall make love to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew soft, and he caressed my cheek, smiling. After his return, for two months we had been at it like bunny-rabbits, making up for all those years of separation. By now our appetites had become more or less normal, but physical intimacy remained for us a great emotional consolation.

I leaned in and claimed his lips again. Casting off our clothes between the hot, impatient kisses, we made our way blindly to the bed. Naked at last, we settled ourselves down, Sherlock on his side and I kneeling behind him. He produced the vaseline jar from the drawer of the bedside table. I took the jar and bent his upper leg, revealing his entrance. My rigid prick twitched at the sight of that enticing little hole. It was so tempting that I lowered my head and pressed a kiss to it, sensing a faint aroma of lavender soap. His cat-like love of personal cleanliness and that soap in particular have always made me burn. I lapped at the puckered rim, lavishing the hairs around it with saliva and grazing the gentle skin with my moustache. Sherlock began to shiver, but I was relentless—I teased the rim with my lips and teeth and then thrust my tongue inside.

“Oh John,” Sherlock gasped, “please don’t play with me.” 

There was such urgency in his voice that I couldn’t but comply. I straightened myself up, slathered vaseline over my prick and shifted closer to him so that my hips were aligned with the curve of his arse. Palming his pert buttock and exposing his hole more, I breached him carefully. When the tip of my cock slipped past the rim, Sherlock let out a luxurious sigh. Flexible as ever, he turned to look at me, his upper body reclining on the bed. He held my gaze as I pushed in deeper, inch by inch, until I was fully sheathed within him. His tight warmth welcomed me home; I undulated my hips gently, stretching him. Low, almost silent moans were escaping his lips, and his eyes shined with the same quiet happiness I felt. Colour spread across his pale cheeks and neck as I thrust harder into him, increasing my pace. Now he was stretched for my girth perfectly, my prick moving inside him with ease. Slick and hot, his tightness was just right, delicious. He moaned louder and bit his fist, trying to keep his voice down lest someone hear it downstairs. I paused for a moment to let him catch his breath. Sherlock grabbed me by the arm and pulled me atop of him for a long, hungry kiss. We explored each other’s mouths, our tongues entwining, our teeth clashing as we relished each other’s taste. Gradually our kisses were growing gentler, less desperate, and then we just lay still, embracing.

The pounding rhythm of our hearts abated a little. I trailed kisses along Sherlock’s neck and nuzzled his armpit, making him giggle, for he was ticklish there. His heady scent sent shivers down my spine, my prick becoming even harder inside him. I resumed the thrusts, and at this new angle I was hitting Sherlock’s sweet spot with precision. He threw back his head, panting and stifling his moans. His channel clenched around me, its pressure so exquisite that an oath tumbled from my lips before I knew it. We kissed again, drunk on each other, both close to the crisis. Sherlock carded his fingers through my hair, whispering my name. His face was glowing. I caught his hand and pressed my lips to his thin wrist, then to his sharp knuckles and long, nervous fingers. I wished to fulfill my promise and bring him to a most decadent climax which would make his toes curl. He read the intent in my eyes. When I sat up, he turned fully onto his side so that I could lie behind him. 

Having settled myself by his side, I circled my arms around him and kissed him behind the ear. Sherlock murmured something unintelligible, stroking my thigh. Slowly, I pulled out of him and entered him again. Next time I rubbed the sensitive, stretched rim of his hole with the head of my prick before plunging in. The moment I was out of him yet again, Sherlock whined. I trailed my hand to his entrance and felt the swollen rim between my thumb and fingers. Sherlock’s blunt nails dug into my thigh. I didn’t make him wait. I pushed in, all the way up to the hilt, and rocked into him, alternating quick, shallow thrusts with deep ones. Sherlock couldn’t contain his moans anymore which only spurred me on. Even if any sounds reached the ground floor, our household were trustworthy people. Palming Sherlock’s bollocks and fondling them, I could feel them tighten. His stiff cock was throbbing and leaking, untouched. I took Sherlock in hand and frigged him, having him at a relaxed pace. My hand, still slick with vaseline, slid along Sherlock’s prick with obscene squelching noises; soon the first droplets of his seed coated my fingers. More and more followed as we both shuddered and I burst inside him. He blabbered in incoherent French whilst I filled him up with my essence and stroked him to completion.

For a long while we enjoyed the utter languor which seized our still connected bodies. We were loath to become separate, not just yet. I felt blessedly serene snuggled up to Sherlock even as my prick was softening within him. His heartbeat comforted me, sounding steady and healthy, a far cry from the way it had been when he had collapsed. During the three years we had been apart, even though he had let me know he was alive, being unable to help had been the worst for me. Now, by his side again, at least I could take care of him. I could ease his pain if he was suffering, physically or mentally. I had his back and could protect him, either from rogues or from himself.

The room seemed cooler now that we had ceased our exertions but we were too lazy to grasp a corner of the bedspread and drag it over ourselves. We’d made a complete mess of it; my fingers were sticky with Sherlock’s semen, yet it didn’t bother me. My hand rested on his now flaccid member. I gave it an affectionate stroke, and Sherlock chuckled contentedly. We were quite sated with our feast. I pressed small kisses to the juncture between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. He stirred and then turned to me face-to-face, my cock finally slipping out of him. In this position we could kiss, though, which we did, thoroughly.

“What would you say to soaking in a fragrant bath?” Sherlock asked after we had lazed about some more.

There was no sign of fatigue or melancholy in his mischievous eyes. It pleased me to no end.

“Oh yes,” I replied with enthusiasm.

“Come, it’s my turn to spoil you.” He pecked me on the tip of my nose and rose from the bed in search of his dressing-gown.


End file.
